


A Different Perspective

by FandomTrash



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Author loves to chat in the Comments, Because I have no idea, Experimental Style, Fluffy Ending, Forgive Me, Hestia POV (mostly), I Tried, I'm Sorry, Introspection, M/M, Poetic, and would like you to explain how the fuck this happened, sort of not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-28 04:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12598008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: There are two of them, I believe, their auras clashing together like the waves against the shore, yet fitting together like the beat of rain on damp earth. They're in sync from eons of existing; perhaps since the earth itself began and those mighty gods above claimed the world. Over and over again, put to the test of reuniting and never once failing. (Soulmates, if one would like to be so garish and general.)





	A Different Perspective

There are two of them, I believe, their auras clashing together like the waves against the shore, yet fitting together like the beat of rain on damp earth. They're in sync from eons of existing; perhaps since the earth itself began and those mighty gods above claimed the world. Over and over again, put to the test of reuniting and never once failing. ( _Soulmates_ , if one would like to be so garish and general.)

The first one is primordial; the rush of moon-tugged tides flowing through him with every palpitation of his heartbeat, a never ending energy coursing through his veins (a continuous sequence, as the ocean never ends.) His name derives from heroes from the time of Ancient Greece, a face among the legends and reputation to match. Well known by the universe's ever-extensive ocean, well kept by the ever-enveloping hands of his half. Eyes conjured from the foggiest seaglass, sparkling as if the entire sun had endowed its hope and joy into his bloodstream, a smile full of teeth carved from pure pearls from the depths of his domain and skin dark from his Mediterranean abode. Among it all, his heart is crafted from the finest abalone, though not many appear to care for such finer details. Not when he's a hero.

The second is primeval; energy from colliding galaxies surging through his entirety, in a rhythm that mimics a pulse throughout his system (but in the bowls of the earth, there is nothing.) A name of Italian origin, a resemblance to a burdened angel, though lost in translation throughout the decades. He is inglorious below the earth's crust, but to his half, he is beyond notorious, if not acclaimed. Hair woven from coarse strands of hellhound fur, eyes forged from the most beauteous gold, silver and brass; left to soak in the frigid waters of sorrowful rivers that course through his homeland, a lithesome frame that layers heavy emphasis on the fact that his soul is waning to the last few lifetimes – and irrevocably ancient being. With bones encrusted with chrysocolla, it is no surprise that one would feel at ease in his presence if not for his foreboding power.

Together, the primordial and primeval, they coexist in sync. In tune to their rhythms, to their heartbeat or lack thereof and simply _alive_. This time round, I like to entertain this idea, they are more alive than they have ever been. Demigods, this time through, with those dithering gods to spite and scrambled memories to recover or recollect. It's amusing to observe these two special entities, from my hearth of homely fire. To see their smiles softer than anything they would dare bare to others, glances shared as if a running joke or perhaps a secret has been transferred from hematite to malachite.

That idea in itself is makes it all the more entertaining, you see; hematite is known to be _magnetic_ , and to know that our ocean-birthed primordial is unable to draw away his eyes, blinking perhaps an unbearable thought, is all the more convincing. (Though, with how magnetic hematite is, there are notorious stories of fingers getting trapped by their force, skin nipped and pain inflicted if treated too roughly or without care. I feel like that insists on something, a requirement, though I can't put my finger on it.)

It's subsuming, soporific, sickening all at once to watch them spar. A mess of stray planets clattering around and sometimes being swallowed by towering waves, rubble rising from the ground in spiked surges that aim to impale, whilst the succulence from all life within a specific radius is absorbed into a weaponized form of striking divinity with the motive to choke. Then, usually it all suddenly _drops._ Primeval releases an elated sound of joyous rancor, and it's fascinating to watch his eyes ignite like fire to gasoline, a maddening inclination to his tone that I don't think even _I_ will be able to understand. Primordial will always hesitate, enraptured by his half's sudden outbursts as if it isn't routine by now, a refreshing slap of cold water to the face despite him having heard the sound like a broken record by now. After, he'll release that blinding smile Apollo himself blessed the primordial with and have the primeval's heart aflutter.

From an immortal's perspective, I will input that these two beings, two forces of nature – the Fates haven't failed them yet. They would do good to listen to the three wicked women sometimes. Though, it is also admirable that they fight so harshly against Death's trio of time and telling, faint flickers of hope in destiny's darkness. Isn't it ironic that hope happens to be a failed kindle of flame, yet I am powerless to protect it?

Irony and cynicism appear to be a running trait with deities.

Enough of that, this isn't about me; this is of ocean-birthed primordials and earth-bound primevals. An introspection of sorts, perhaps, though mortals have never truly been my area of expertise. Give me their truer forms, their roaring embodiments of life and death, their ceaseless desires for freedom and escape, the yearning for life and living rather than simply surviving, and I'll be able to give you their life stories. But as it is, their latest round of this difficult journey appears to stump me. The primeval one confides in me, when he was smaller and struggling to cope. Of a sister made of black and white photographs and a cap woven from the green threads of an Athena-cursed olive branch, of a card game that incited the game of gods and monsters. How trivial it had all appeared, but his ancient soul was withering to nothing and all I could do was watch. With my hearth directly in front of us, I could've revived him. And yet I didn't, and he's made it.

The other one, the primeval's half, he doesn't approach me much. His hatred for holy beings has directed him in a godless path for what he aims to be victory. Though, the Fates whisper contradictions, Apollo and his prophets promise ruin with a single flare of anger. It's a good thing his half's skeleton is infused with such pretty, meaningful gemstones.

It's late at night that they truly connect. They roam down to the lake, sit on the shore where the waters lap at the bank. The primeval one will recline against the primordial, hum a soft tune that joins melody with the mesmeric waves. I know that to his half, with a heart of abalone, it means so very much; his songs practically sing directly to that oceanic soul. In turn, he will run fingers through his half's hair, press him close to his pulse and allow the primeval one to listen to the thud of his heartbeat. There is comfort exchanged at all times, but when the moon is highest and the tides are drawn, the campers asleep and monsters gone; then, only then, do they rest.

It is an admirable thing; the things they have done for these gods they detest so much. I say that as if I'm apart from them. Though, bound to this meager camp of half-god children, I seem to have lost my touch – if only slightly. I suppose that's what happens, after being away for so long. You lose the self-image you had. And perhaps that is what happened to this pair I watch so often and so closely.

They've lost their grasp, their understanding; now just the remnants of what they once were, in shells they couldn't care less about. They go by such trivial names, nowadays – _Nico, Percy_ , and the respect that held them so highly above the rest has trickled into mere recognition. I wonder if that bothers them at all; though from how they amble so freely and contentedly, something tells me they don't even miss it.

Primev – _Nico,_ Nico – tilts his head a little at my heart, flame swallowed by the vacuum of his eyes; Percy's smile is etched into his face, eyes softened in a way that you wouldn't imagine such a high-status warrior to express. It's endearing, in certain lights. I must admit that it is extremely heartwarming to see the son of Hades so happy for the first time in what I can count to be the last time he was young. There's a light in his eyes that doesn't quite add up to anything, a detached sort of emotion that runs him wild – one that Aphrodite would gush over, and her consorts fume red at the fact she favored these two over them. Love.

It's the little things such as this that keep my time here tolerable. To see them at one table or the other in the pavilion, huddled close for the cold season, those soft smiles and those explicit eyes. A harmonious moment between them, one that none can read or decipher with any form of ease. It is disheartening to see this ruined by a multitude of people.

The girl with opalescent eyes, mouth silver and words a jumble of articulated astuteness. Often times, she lingers around whenever at the camp, and wedges between them insufferably. Percy, he finds pleasantries in her company, talks up storms that are better suited for that roman son of Jupiter, and falls oblivious to Nico. Who in turn becomes agitated by her presence, melodic words darkened to a sardonic form of communication, bitten-off words and vitriolic temper. His father's side coloring him a certain black.

The boy with a body buzzing from tip to toe with lightning, eyes blazing with inner energy bright and new, a foreign bone structure that in know must interest Nico greatly. The son of Poseidon, through natural rivalry and deep-set jealousy through years of hard-earned attention, finds hindrance in the blond's appearance. Whilst he may not be an as obvious wedge between these two boys if find great fondness in, it is apparent that Percy doesn't take too well to the idea of Nico conversing with anybody else.

That in itself is amusing, as among many things between these two, and if with what power I have, I vowed long ago to protect them. If only a hearth I have to offer, I believe it to be enough to keep them kindled.

* * *

 

“Y'think maybe we could move to New Rome?” He asks, brushing a hand through my hair. I blink, glancing up at him, startled by the sudden question. For a heavy moment, I don't respond. It's easy to see the doubt start flooding over his features, as he purses his lips and decides to pointedly avert his gaze. Then, I smile, watching the hope burst back to life at the expression, “I think maybe we could, Perce.”

He cracks a grin, ducking down to peck my cheek, “Better than being here forever, right?” I nod, reclining against him, “Yup.” he snorts, “'Yup'? That's all you gotta say, baby?” I nod, smothering my grin in his shirt, “Yup.” I know he rolls his eyes, before falling onto his side, me tightly hugged to his chest, “Think it'll be a nice change. Get to see Hazel and the guys more, huh? Maybe get one of those nice apartments Annie's always rattling on about.” I grit my teeth, willing away the agitation. “Yup,” It's grated out this time.

Percy soothes away the irritation, humming merrily as he leans back against the pillows, “Buy those cool waterbeds, and those lava lamps that look awesome.” I smother a snort, “Oh yeah? Lemme guess; blue?” Percy nods, sighing dreamily in a way that makes my knees feel weak, “You know me so well, don't you? Best thing that ever happened to me.” heat rises to my face, and I'm forced to look away. “Don't get too overzealous,” I warn him, but like always, he simply smushes his face to mine and kisses me softly.

“There's nothing wrong with being right, okay?” There goes my ability to think straight. He's just – _like that_ , I guess, easily evading anything I throw at him and making my heart soar. As cheesy as it is. His pretty eyes bore into me, I feel them, as his breaths wash over my face; fresh, minty. Goddamn him and his lack of morning breath. Lucky fucker. (Though, _I'm_ the lucky one: I got him in the end.)

“No, but sometimes there's a wrong within a perceived 'right'.” I tell him, just to watch his eyes widen that little bit, mouth part like the next intake of breath will be his last – his last breath used to prove me wrong, to prove to me how treacherously wrong I am and how I deserve the best. It's selfish, I know, but I do love it. So very much, I love _him_ so very much – with my entirety, because it's true, has been for a long, long, long time. “Shut up, Nico.” Is his weak croak of a comeback, before he's ducking low, clutching my face almost painfully, pressing his mouth to mine.

It's a ridiculously cliché thing. My world falls away, everything blurrily edged and the intensity of his eyes on full volume, sucking the air from my lungs. For brief moments, it's like I've transcended, though by this point I've become accustomed to the sensation. Though, it'll never take the joy from this reciprocation of affection.

He pulls back, panting softly in that adorable way I don't really know how to explain, eyes bright and face flushed red. I grin, sliding into his lap, playing with his hair, “Did you know that I love you?” He chuckles warmly, hands brushing my waist. “Yes,” It's a whisper, “Yes, I know you love me, Nico.” I cock my head, hands smoothing over his shoulders to grip his shirt, “What about the other way around? Enlighten me, Percy.” There's a strong emotion that fills his eyes. I don't know what to call it, but it makes my heart burst and piece itself back together. “Yes,” It's forced out – choked, loud, and I'm glad it's only us in his cabin, “Yes, I _know_ , Nico, _I know_ I love you. I...I always have.” (If not the way I wanted at the beginning.)

A laugh bubbles out of me, cut short by how Percy pulls me back down again. Desperate, almost, but most definitely loving. That's it – _love._ Love. It still awes me to think that my dream came true. Cliché, stereotypical and disgustingly cheesy – but I've never known myself to be a liar. Well – not true, but I don't expect you to understand.

In the back of my mind, I can see far out of Percy's window. Beyond the cabins to the pavilion, to the hearth and the goddess who nurses it. The flame roars so bright, a mixture of colors I don't know the names of, melting the frost that ebbed closer to it. I smile, resting my head on Percy's. Home is where the hearth is, I suppose, though that in itself is an amusing thought;

Hestia may be the goddess of the hearth, of home and family, but perhaps I don't need her guidance on how to make my own. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is spawned through me being bored on Tumblr and learning the meanings of some gemstones and whatever. Turns out; 'hey, these are some pretty cool representations of ______. I gotta use this in a fic somehow' - and they're only mentioned, like, once. From there it just sort of...derailed, if there were tracks to begin with. So to clear some shit up;
> 
> Chrysocolla: is a peaceful crystal that brings comfort in times of stress, transition and change. It draws negativity from your body and calms your emotions. It is also said to increase your capacity to love.
> 
> So I sort of zeroed in on the last bit more than the rest, and translated it into either - it increases the capacity that somebody loves _you,_ or that you have more room to love somebody _else_. It made sense to me, i guess, so i worked that into my head. But also like - the dynamic I like writing tends to be a mix between Nico comforting Percy a lot, because usually I'm really shitty and have tough breakups with Annie, so.
> 
> Abalone: holds the energy of the ocean, bringing strong healing and soothing energy. Carrying it with you allows you to stay connected with the ocean's energy, even when on land.
> 
> This one is sort of self explanatory. But y'know, Percy, water, abalone heart; yup, yup, that sounds good let's do that. I guess the whole 'soothing' thing is represented more at the end of this fic, Perce being all 'oh dude i totally know i love you man' and all that. I just. fuck, guys, i don't know anymore.
> 
> So shout at me on the comments. tell me that this sucks and i need to stay away from the keyboard a little while longer, or something. i don't care. i like hearing from you guys, even if it's mean, it just gives me motivation to get off my ass, i guess. hope you guys had a good Halloween; some fucker left syringes outside my apartment door so that's cool. hope you were all safe and got candy instead of drugs.


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